Pieces of Me
by Alfirin1986
Summary: Written as a fill for The Hobbit Kmeme. OP's prompt: Kíli is not like other Dwarves. He's always been a little too much and a little too wrong. He struggles with this his entire life until someone comes along and shows him the truth "You are terrifying and strange and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love." Ratings/tags will likely change later.
1. Rolling Hills and Round Doors

He finds some piece of himself in this land of green, rolling hills and round, wooden doors. It's a shock and it slides into place so easily that it feels wrong at first. So much of his life has been spent trying to smooth rough edges and hide away the things that made him less of a dwarf. He couldn't make his beard grow in thicker or make his nose or ears larger. He was too proficient with a bow to give it up. There were far too many things that didn't fit, that forced their way into holes that were never meant to hold them. He never expected to find somewhere a part of him might not be so out of place.

The inhabitants of this peaceful, little place are strange with their bare faces and round bellies. There are no jewels adorning their homes and the only gold in their clothes is in the form of thread, but still they seem content. They laugh and drink and smoke. They visit with their neighbors over picket fences and chase loose chickens back to their coops. They eye the strangers traversing through their lands with suspicion but they do not stop them. That would take too much effort, and the dwarves seem to pose no immediate threat. Everywhere he looks there are children, gaggles of them. They peer out from round windows and around the trunks of the wide oak trees. They giggle and dance away when he waves. He knows he's not the only one to marvel at their abundance.

This place is wholly strange and wondrous.

It has been many decades since he was their age. Many long years since he laughed with the complete carelessness that youth granted. They were a long-lived race but the burdens of their forebears were laid on them young. Time waits for no one, and it does not care that a child should have his time to grow and learn and play without the cares of the world set heavy on his shoulders. It calls for retribution. It sings out for the reclaiming of a lost home. It will whisper to anyone with the ear to listen.

He was raised in the mountains, grew up surrounded by stone walls and the legacy of a family carved out of the rock beneath their feet. Life was not easy for the exiled line of Durin and though they had found refuge in the west the memory of Erebor lay like a weight on their hearts. It didn't matter that he had never seen it, that he'd never known any home but the one in Ered Luin. It was their inheritance and their burden.

For as long as he can remember he would close his eyes at night and dream of wide open skies, of lands stretching out before his feet. It called to him and he wondered if it was the way his kinsmen described the stone singing beneath their own. He listened intently for that song, and he convinced himself he heard it, but if he ever truly did it was always a distant murmur. No one else had ever had dreams like his and it seemed to unsettle them when he asked. Despite the whispers that he was as slow as he was odd he knew that they didn't ease his way through a world that he should have fit into. His differences made others uncomfortable and it didn't take long for him to stop asking altogether.

But Kíli was not touched like they rumored him to be. He knew they looked at him differently, whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear. But his eyes were sharp and his ears, though small, were keen. There was little that escaped his notice. When his uncle had mentioned his quest to reclaim their ancestral home he knew it was his chance to escape the ideas painted of him. Maybe if he proved himself, maybe if they reclaimed their home and he became a hero they wouldn't think he was so unlike them.

Fíli nudges him out of his thoughts as he bangs his fist against the round, green door.

When it finally opens with a soft creak they're looking upon a hobbit that appears as if he had been interrupted while preparing for sleep. His curls are tousled and he looks put out even before they've bowed and introduced themselves.

"You must be, Mr. Boggins!" Kíli exclaims with delight and their host seems less than impressed.

"It's _Baggins_," the hobbit corrects, but they're already pushing their way in through the door and the smial is unlike anything Kíli had expected. The craftsmanship is solid; the tooling in the round wooden doorways speaks to a skill one would never expect of the soft people in this green land. There are no precious metal adornments or jewels set among the molding but Kíli can tell it is made with love and care. It is all very different from what he's used to but it's pleasant—warm even.

"It's nice, this place," he says. "Did you do it yourself?"

The hobbit looks up from where Fíli is unloading his weapons into his arms and answers in the negative in the same breath that he protests at Kíli wiping his feet on—"That's my mother's glory box! Can you please not do that?!"

The hobbit is fussy about his things, but it's amusing rather than annoying. He worries over his plates and bowls. He faints at the thought of going out his door, though in all honesty Bofur's bit about the dragon probably didn't help. It's no huge surprise when he refuses to sign the parchment that Thorin thrusts into his hands but if Kíli's honest with himself he's a bit disappointed.

After their host has disappeared down one of the many hallways the company spreads out and begins to bed down for the night. The morning will come too soon along with the start of what promises to be an arduous journey. Despite that and the fact that Fíli and he had been on the road for a week already Kíli wanders the halls, too intrigued to sleep so soon.

Mantles were lined with framed pictures of smiling faces. Two old pipes, lovingly cleaned and well-used sit below a painting of two hobbits who shared many of the same features as Master Baggins. _His parents_, Kíli muses to himself. In the kitchen the pottery they had thrown about earlier much to the hobbit's chagrin had been polished and neatly replaced; not by them—their host must have done it while they were discussing their journey. He remembers the protest, the shout about it being his mother's.

"What are you doing?"

Thorin is watching him from the doorway and Kíli flushes to have been found out. He feels like a kid again, caught in the forge without permission or sneaking off to the market instead of sitting through Balin's lessons.

"I was just having a look around," he admits.

"You should get your sleep instead of pawing through the halfling's knick-knacks," Thorin admonishes, but his tone is gentle, as gentle as he gets now. When Kíli nods with his eyes still firmly on his feet his uncle pulls him into a hug. "Come, we've an early start and your mother would have my hide if you didn't get some sleep while you can."

He lets himself be guided back to the living room where they had spread their bed rolls in front of the hearth. He wants to ask if they see the same things he does, but he knows from experience that the inquiries will be ill-received. He saw the way his uncle regarded the hobbit as well. _He would be a burden_, he'd heard Thorin tell Dwalin in muttered Khuzdul. _Best he stay here._

Kíli wants to disagree but that will earn him nothing but his uncle's ire.

_Look around_, he wants to tell them. _He is living in memories!_

Fíli's already half asleep when Kíli settles in next to him, but he turns over and bumps his forehead against Kíli's shoulder. "Alright?" he asks around a yawn.

"Alright," Kíli assures him even if he can't assure himself.

Still, when they set off the next morning before the sun has fully risen something nags at him.

He doesn't figure it out until the rolling green hills begin to give way to woodlands and a shout catches up to them. The hobbit—Bilbo Baggins—is running towards them, contract in hand.

"This is a surprise," Fíli murmurs to him as Balin reviews the contract and welcomes the newest member of their company with a wink.

"Is it?" Kíli asks, his voice distant. He misses the look his brother gives him.

His thoughts wander back to a cozy hobbit hole, and to a soft creature that should have liked nothing better than to stay there before his warm hearth, surrounded by his heirlooms. Maybe there was more to the little hobbit than the rest of the company seemed to think.

Maybe it wasn't so surprising after all.

**O~o~O**

Among a company of rather nosy individuals it's nearly impossible not to overhear things. Even though his mother always told him it was rude to eavesdrop—though she was especially practiced at the art—Kíli can't help himself when Gandalf begins speaking about hobbits to an inquisitive Ori. Bilbo, not to be outdone by the old wizard, joins in to add his own two cents, seeing as he's the hobbit after all.

"Oh no!" Bilbo was saying, "As I told Gandalf—not that he listened—we hobbits are none too keen on adventures. Make you late for dinner, they will."

The grey wizard stops puffing on his pipe and looks over at his companion. "I listened, my dear Bilbo. I always listen."

"Listen and disregard," the hobbit grumbles and Ori bites back a smile. "Hobbits are a simple people and are quite happy in the Shire. We value books and a warm meal, or seven, and good ale," he explains to the young dwarf who looks at him with unmasked interest. The youngest Ri brother has a preference for ancient tomes and scripts to swords and axes, but he has found his place among their people and company. He may look soft in his knitted scarves but no one doubted his worth. His beard grows and he had found his comfort in the mountain's embrace.

But Ori doesn't ask the question Kíli wants the answer to, instead asking about tradition among hobbits.

Kíli listens to their exchange but doesn't urge his pony forward to join in. He drinks in Bilbo's explanation about their parties and markets. About them giving gifts on birthdays instead of receiving them. About their seven daily meals. There's fondness in Bilbo's voice and a longing Kíli's not sure he's ever truly known. When the hobbit looks back over his shoulder it's not to glance at the dwarves behind him. His eyes settle on some far distant place. "I wonder why he came then."

"What are you on about?"

Kíli looks up at his brother and realizes he had been musing to himself aloud. "Oh, nothing."

"You know you can tell me anything," Fíli persists and earns a grateful smile.

His older brother had always been steadfast in his support of Kíli. In the eyes of the fair-haired Durin he was never less of a dwarf for his undesirable features or odd habits. He always had an ally in the form of his brother and it had been a lifeline to him in more ways than one.

"Kí."

"I know," Kíli says and shrugs. "It's nothing. Really."

If anyone notices that he is quieter than normal they don't say anything though he doesn't miss Fíli's questioning glances when his older brother thinks he isn't looking. If what Bilbo says is true then he should have had no reason to run out his door. He should have had every reason to stay safe in his home. So why would he sign the contract? Why would he come?

He's not left with much time to ponder it that evening when two ponies manage to disappear with nary a sound. Even when Bilbo appears out of the falling darkness clutching two bowls of stew Kíli is too preoccupied with the missing ponies to realize this is the first time he's had as good an opportunity to talk to their burglar.

"Shouldn't we tell Thorin?" Bilbo asks when they tell him what has happened.

Fíli immediately cuts in. "Let's not worry him," he says. "As our official burglar we were hoping you would look into it."

The look on his face says he wanted to do anything but look into it but he swallows hard and casts his eyes around. "Well I suppose…" He steps up beside Fíli and gestures to the uprooted tree. "It had to have been something big, to have done that—you didn't hear anything?" he asks looking up at the older of the brothers. The look on his face says he has all sorts of questions focused around what exactly had distracted them so thoroughly that they didn't notice two ponies being carted off.

When it's clear he isn't going to get an explanation, or even an acknowledgment he blows out a breath. "Well something large had to have uprooted these trees." Kíli makes a noise of agreement from behind him. "Something large and possibly quite dangerous…"

He doesn't know how right he is.

Mountain trolls are slow, and stupid, but there are three of them and only one of their burglar. It shouldn't be a big surprise when they catch him, he's unsuited for dangerous situations, and they had sent him into danger without so much as a knife. He has a way with words but his three captors don't have the wits to be fooled. Kíli knows he has to make amends and he can't do that if their burglar gets made into a stew by the trolls. He doesn't think he just acts.

"What were you thinking?" his uncle hisses at him later, after they've been freed from their sacks and he's pulled both of his nephews into a tight, if short, hug. "You could have gotten yourself killed rushing in like that alone."

He wants to protest, it seemed only right to leap to the hobbit's defense, but his uncle isn't looking for an explanation or an excuse. No, after seventy-odd years Kíli knows Thorin is only looking for him to agree and promise not to do it again—until he does it again. So Kíli gives his uncle what he wants with a nod and mumbled promise and the matter is set behind them.

There is another he owes but there is no time for it in the moments that follow. They are pursued through the plains and it is only by the quick thinking of not one wizard but two that they manage to escape at all, even if escape means finding refuge with the elves.

Thorin's irritation sets everyone on edge even as they settle in for their stay. Gandalf seems insistent that the help they need to read the map will only be found here and while it would please Thorin to no end to set their backs to the unwelcomed hospitality they can't risk crossing the mountains if in doing so they leave the only person who might have the skill to tell them where the door lies. Kíli doesn't mind so much. Aside from the green food and interesting definition of music it's not such a bad place, and they can sleep easily for a change.

"Thank you."

The voice startles him from where he'd been leaning over a railing watching the river dash among the rocks far below. Bilbo had approached without a sound and was standing at the railing just to his right.

"You—I—What?"

The hobbit smiles and leans against the railing at his side. "I meant to thank you for coming for me when the trolls caught me. You rushed in on your own, and you didn't have to."

It takes Kíli several long moments before he's assured himself that the hobbit is being sincere. "But I meant to apologize to you!" he exclaims and they both stare at each other for a long second as each processes what the other had said.

"Well then perhaps you can accept my thanks, I will accept your apology and we can be done with it?" Bilbo suggests, garnering a nod from the young dwarf.

Kíli wants to ask all of his questions at once and Bilbo looks as if he doesn't want to leave but the silence stretches between them and the hobbit finally clears his throat and bobs his head, "Right then, good talk."

The question is out of Kíli's mouth before he has time to phrase it in a way that doesn't leave Bilbo stuttering to a stop with his mouth agape and irritation flickering in his hazel eyes. "Why did you even come?"

Kíli wants to kick himself. He hears how it sounds but that's not how he meant it and he tries to stop the other man but the hobbit is already marching away and Kíli's protests die on his tongue.

_You moron_, he scolds himself and shakes his head.


	2. Misunderstandings

_Of all the dwarves in all the land!_ Bilbo fumes as he stomps away.

It had settled in quite soon after they had departed the Shire that to the dwarves he was more a source of comic relief than someone that had anything to do with burgling. He was a fish out water in the purest sense, and quite frequently he felt like that made him seem like a burden more than anything else. He was sure Thorin thought so. But Kíli…he hadn't thought that of Kíli.

_Until now!_ Bilbo finds himself in one of the lower gardens, a place blessedly dwarf-free. _Why did I even come!? The nerve!_

Before Gandalf had come along he'd never had any intention of running out his door. Well, he supposes that isn't entirely true. But surely all hobbit tweens run around in the woods pretending to be off on grand adventures. He might have never seen any others, but that didn't mean anything. And yes, the stories his mother had woven with words at bedtime had sparked a deep curiosity but he was a Baggins. He belonged in the Shire.

At least that's what he had convinced himself.

When thirteen strangers, and that bloody wizard, had invited themselves over to empty his pantry and destroy his plumbing he had tried hard to hold onto his irritation, even though his curiosity sparked as they spoke of their lost home far to the east. The dwarves were a secretive race, that he knew, and that was about all he knew. They were folk of the mountain and skilled with metal. They were travelling smiths and weapons masters. But more than that he did not know.

And all these weeks on the road with them hadn't garnered him any more knowledge, at least not on their race as a whole. But he had noticed things about each of his companions, things that set them apart and things they shared in common.

But the dark-haired brother had been different. Kíli had been quick to smile and even quicker to joke with him instead of at him. And where the others wielded their axes and swords with a certain skill that should not be surprising, Kili used a bow, though he lacked none of the efficiency or skill of his fellow dwarves. He hadn't felt like he was quite so out of his element around the young dwarf.

In the Shire he wasn't dead weight, but he never truly fit in. At fifty-one he was considered an oddity to his fellow hobbits. He had reached his majority decades ago but remained unmarried, which was about as strange as a hobbit could get, save from venturing out of the Shire on an adventure with a wizard and thirteen dwarves. He had sealed his fate as the community outcast as soon as he had stepped over the border of the Shire.

Maybe some part of him had hoped he would find a place among the thirteen strangers, and maybe part of him had thought that Kíli would be the first one to accept him. It was a foolish notion and he knew it but he had always taken after his mother's side; he'd been a dreamer and full of wishes since he was a fauntling.

He blows out a sigh and stares up at the star-filled sky.

_Fool of a Took_.

**O~o~O**

If they had spent any amount of time together before, Kíli would swear that Bilbo was avoiding him. While that still might be true he spent no less time with Bilbo than he ever had but still he regrets his words. Impulsive and brash. He's always had a way of speaking before he fully thinks things through. In the mountains it was a front, a way to distract others from his differences with a fast tongue and brilliant smile. Here it was just a habit he found hard to break.

He can't think of a time he's regretted it more.

"What did you do to anger Master Baggins?" Fíli asks one night several days after they've come to stay in Rivendell waiting for the crescent moon to reveal the location of the door in Thorin's map.

Kíli looks up suddenly, eyes darting to his brother then to the hobbit who has his back firmly to the both of them and was well out of earshot anyway. Was it that obvious? Had Bilbo said something? "You know?"

His brother bumps their shoulders together. "Look who you're talking to. Of course I know. Not to mention every time your eyes settle on our esteemed, little burglar you get that look like someone kicked your puppy."

"I don't have a puppy," Kíli mutters. "And it's not like we interacted much before now anyway."

Fíli sighs and ruffles his hair affectionately. "Come-on, you can tell me," Fíli encourages him.

"I said something to Bilbo, but I didn't mean it the way it came out."

"You rarely do," his brother teases but when it doesn't garner him the usual grin he stills. Kíli is obviously troubled. "Have you told him this?"

How was he supposed to talk to someone who wouldn't acknowledge his presence? And what happens if he buries his foot further into his mouth? It is a distinct possibility. He shakes his head and busies himself with lighting his pipe.

"It will work itself out, little brother."

Of course Fíli is right but that was no immediate consolation. Bilbo seems content to ignore him, and Kíli, as troubled as he is, feels powerless to do anything but let him.

That's why it's a bit of a shock when Bilbo bridges the gap first, the next night, when they are sitting beneath a darkening sky enjoying a late meal. Fíli offers the hobbit a small smile as he approaches and wordlessly accepts the plate of food he is offered, not-so-subtly kicking Kíli in the back when he does. Kíli barks out a protest and glares up at his brother who nods at Bilbo as he walks off to talk to Balin.

"Are you hungry?"

Kíli accepts the food wordlessly, hoping the tiny smile he offers the hobbit is thanks enough. He doesn't want to open his mouth again and somehow offend the other man just by offering his thanks. They stare at each other for a few moments before the hobbit moves to leave.

"I'm not just a Baggins," Bilbo says suddenly, stopping mid-turn making the firelight bounce off of his curls in a way that catches Kíli's eye. "I'm a Took too, and sometimes that gets the best of me."

And with that he's off again, and Kíli watches him with confusion and a sense of relief as he settles in one of the alcoves on the far side of the open veranda where they had set up camp. He's fairly certain that was some form of an apology, not that he was owed any.

"What did he say?" Fíli asks, settling in beside him.

"I'm….not sure."

A deep chuckle from behind them has both brothers careening around to find the grey wizard who had managed to disappear for much of their time in Rivendell. "What Mr. Baggins was explaining is that while he is a Baggins by name he takes after his mother's side of the family, the Tooks, in temperament—probably more than he'd care to admit. He lets his temper get the best of him at times but he is quick to forgive as well."

"Gandalf, why did he come?" Kíli asks. Perhaps the wizard can sate his curiosity.

There is laughter in the old man's face but he shakes his head. "That is a question you'll have to pose to our burglar. I'm afraid I cannot speak for him." The wizard smiles around the stem of his pipe. "There are many reasons he might have chosen to join this company, and still many more why he might not have. I could fathom a guess but it would likely be wrong because hobbits, as I've come to find, seem so very simple yet after you think you've learned all there is to know they will still find a way to surprise you."

Surprise seems to be a recurring theme if Kíli has anything to say about it. He isn't sure how he finds himself in the library the next morning while the majority of the dwarves are still dead to the world but he can recognize an odd occurrence when he sees one. It has been many long years since he's been in a library, still many more since he stepped foot in one willingly. This place is larger than any they'd had in Ered Luin. There are books on every surface, carefully placed onto each shelf. They span the length and breadth of the room and he thinks Ori would probably never come out again if he sees this place.

His bare feet make hardly a sound on the smooth stone floor and he's brushing his hair out of his eyes when he comes across Bilbo with a book splayed across his lap and a cup of tea in hand. The hobbit looks up at his approach and seemingly can't help the laugh that spills out at the sight of the sleep-tousled dwarf.

"What?!"

"You just don't look awake," Bilbo explains as Kíli tries to stifle a yawn. He offers the dwarf his cup of tea and Kíli is too surprised to do anything but take it and lift it to his lips. "It's good, this."

"Lemon and chamomile," the hobbit offers.

For dwarves the act of sharing food and drink from one another's plate or cup was an intimate one, something shared between the closest of friends and kin. To accept was a sign of respect and trust, and the customs of his people demanded he refuse but it was too late now, and it had been such an honest gesture that Kíli found himself unwilling to listen to tradition.

"May I join you, Master Baggins?"

"Only if you'll call me Bilbo."

Kíli sinks to the ground with a radiant smile. "Bilbo then."

They sit there in companionable silence as Bilbo reads and Kíli sips at the hobbit's tea. It's not normal, this feeling of contentment and being calm enough not to feel the need to be talking or moving. When he has time to stop or to think back home it leaves an opening for the other dwarves to notice just how hard he tries to be the person he isn't and how much it never really works. But Bilbo doesn't seem to judge him; at least he doesn't know their customs well enough for that.

"The other night I tried to explain why I lost my temper and I realize that you may have no idea what I meant."

Bilbo's voice is soft but it echoes in the large room and Kíli jerks around, the cup tinkling to the stone floor as he holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. "You don't have to explain yourself to me!"

He's interrupted by a laugh. "It's hardly going to put me out, and how can you accept my explanation if you don't understand it?"

"I suppose that's true," Kíli concedes. Part of him thinks he should tell Bilbo that Gandalf, as mysterious as he was, offered some insight but he wants to hear the other man speak. "But first, you must know that I didn't mean for what I said to come out the way I said it."

That admission garners him a smile. "It is alright if it did. I know I'm not like you all, and you are right to question my reasons for being here."

Kíli protests. "I don't doubt you! Really I don't!" And it isn't as if he has any ground to stand on to question their burglar's decision to come on their quest.

"Thank you Kíli," Bilbo says. He looks out the window for a long moment as if gathering his train of thought. "Well you know I'm a Baggins, at least my father was a Baggins. Bungo Baggins—"

Kíli stills and looks up at the hobbit, "You mean like the pony we named Bungo?" he asks in a small voice, earning a laugh. "The very same," the hobbit confirms but doesn't seem put off by it. Someone had read the name somewhere in the hobbit's smial. Of course they should have known it was a family member.

"Anyway, the Bagginses are very respectable hobbits. They are predictable to a tee and prefer the familiar to the unknown. They are very well thought of and you will find that most of them live in or near Hobbiton." He chuckles to himself and Kíli wants to ask what the joke is but he doesn't want to interrupt. "On the other hand the Tooks are more adventurous and there wasn't a hobbit that went off on some adventure that didn't have Took blood in them. They can be quick to irritate but like all hobbits they don't hold grudges long. I think it's impossible."

"And you said your father was a Baggins, so that means your mother was a Took?"

"Yes, Belladonna Took."

There was a smile in his voice when he spoke of her, of both of them, but there was something else. Something buried beneath the fond recollections. Kíli shifts when Bilbo lapses into silence, staring up at the other man who seems lost in thought.

The hobbit's eyes are wide and unseeing, he's focused on something distant. Maybe a warm home in a far, green land. Maybe a time when laughter filled his smial; laughter that wasn't that of thirteen strangers but belonged to his mother and father, who were beyond his reach now.

"Bilbo?"

He blinks several times before his eyes lock with Kíli's. "I'm sorry."

"You don't have to do that!" Kíli exclaims and flinches when his voice carries. "It's just—I mean there's nothing to apologize for."

The smile he earns is genuine, a soft tilt of Bilbo's lips that speaks more than words.

"Well, I'm sure that's plenty more than you wanted to know about me or hobbits in general," Bilbo chuckles to himself. "I get the feeling I'm not supposed to ask about you dwarves, but…" He trails off with a shake of his head and bounces to his feet, swooping down to snatch up the teacup from next to Kíli's knee. "Shall we find some more tea?"

The hobbit navigates the maze of halls like he'd been there before down to a lower kitchen where an elf produced another cup and sent them off with a tray complete with a kettle and some biscuits with honey.

Kíli startles when Bilbo thanks the woman in elvish.

"_No veren_," she replies with a smile.

The hobbit gives a little bow and motions for Kíli to follow him. "Have you been here before?" he asks when they're well away.

"No, but my mother visited Rivendell and spoke of it to me at great length when I was younger." Many nights had been spent before the hearth, her voice rich and loving as she recalled the tales of her adventures to her young son while her husband sat nearby with a smile on his face and a book in his hands. She had painted pictures of this place with her words and it had never left him.

They don't return to the library; instead they settle down on one of the many verandas.

"Should I change?" Kíli asks Bilbo as several elves pass by, giving the two lingering glances.

"You are hardly indecent, and I'm barefoot as well," Bilbo replies without looking up, his attention on pouring the tea. "Though your hair is probably startling them a little."

His hair has always been one of those points of contention between him and the others. It's too fine to hold braids well and it's always been messy. Where most dwarves weave intricate plaits that speak of their lineage and bonds, his own locks remain unruly and unbraided. He has a clasp from his mother, one that matches Fíli's, but it is the only ornament he is able to anchor to it.

"Kíli?"

Brown eyes meet hazel ones and Kíli realizes he had been trying to smooth his hair down with little success. "If it offends them I can try to do something with it."

Bilbo tugs Kíli's hands down and smiles. "And why should you care if you offend them? I was given to believe you lot don't care much for the opinion of elves," he says. "Besides, your hair is fine, if a little tousled from sleep. It's a lovely brown and not what I would call at all offensive."

For a moment he smooths down the dwarf's hair, his fingers gently tugging on the wild locks before he withdraws in order to press a fresh cup of tea into Kíli's hands.

"Dwarves are a secretive race," Kíli says, because he wants to share with Bilbo and not just because he feels like he owes him. "And many wouldn't tell you anything but you are travelling with us, and it seems only fair that we—I—tell you something."

He would be in trouble if the others knew and Bilbo seemed to realize the same. "Kíli, I don't want you to get yourself in trouble on my account."

It's Kíli's turn to laugh and he rocks back. "Oh, _Mr. Boggins_," he begins teasingly. "I've been getting myself in and out of trouble for a very long time. Have no fear."

They spend the next half hour sipping on tea as Kíli tells Bilbo about the importance of braids and what beads mean. "The beads Fíli has on his moustache, those are from me. I gave him to them when he came of age. Really, they're not the greatest of craftsmanship but he refuses to take any others. He says they mean too much to him. Beads are given on special occasions; when a dwarf comes of age, or after our first battle, or during courtship."

Bilbo nods thoughtfully. "So the braids signify the bonds, and the beads to commemorate significant events in one's life?" he asks, and Kíli smiles with approval.

"Do you mind if I ask why you—"

He is interrupted by another voice. "There you two are."

Fili is walking towards them and Bilbo bites back his question and busies himself replacing their cups on the now empty tray. "Breakfast is ready," the blonde tells them. "Though it will likely be nuts and berries, as if we are some woodland creatures for these elves to woo."

Bilbo chuckles. "Maybe they will yet surprise you, Master Fíli."

"You'll forgive me if I keep my doubts," he retorts but he smiles all the same.

With the tray in hand Bilbo stands. "I'm sure you'll want to get dressed before breakfast," he says to Kíli, "I'll try to save you something from Bombur."

Kíli grins and nods while Fíli watches the exchange with a careful eye. "We'll be along shortly, you won't have to hold him off for long," the older Durin assures him. They watch the hobbit walk away before Fíli turns to his younger brother. "You know if anyone found out you were telling him of our ways there would be hell to pay, right?"

He understands, as well as someone who has never shared the ridicule his younger brother has been forced to endure, can. He knows Kíli has struggled his entire life to find his place and this will not help him if it comes to light. "He is not one of us, Kíli."

"_I'm_ not really one of us," Kíli retorts. "Not really."

Fíli's face grows serious and he grabs his brother by the shirt. "Don't say that. You are one of us! You have always been one of us!"

Kíli squeezes his brother's hand. "Will you tell uncle?" he asks and gets a shove for it.

"Of course not! I don't have an issue with it. I like Bilbo, you know I do. Just don't let the others find out," he warns and then pulls Kíli into a hug that is more like a headlock than anything else. "Now come-on. Bilbo won't be able to hold Bombur off for long."

Neither of them notices the hobbit slip from the shadows and trot away.


	3. What We Think We Know

It's funny how everything can change in an instant; how hearing a conversation you were never meant to be privy to could change your entire perspective in the blink of an eye.

Kíli's desire to spend time with Bilbo had seemed odd only in the sense that none of the others seemed to harbor any interest in that same activity. It wasn't that they were rude. No, it was more to the fact that if given half the chance they were more content to spend time with others of their own kind. Bilbo doesn't mind, not really. He understands. _It's much the same as we hobbits, in fact_, he has told himself on many nights when he found himself sitting beside the fire on his own.

But the youngest dwarf had seemed to always have a kind word for him, even if it was in passing. He'd always seemed to listen attentively when Bilbo spoke.

It didn't make so much sense until now.

"_I'm_ not really one of us," Kíli had told his brother, and Bilbo had heard the pain beneath his words, that bone deep ache that was hard to shake off. "Not really."

Fíli had grabbed his brother immediately, protectiveness evident in every line of his body. "Don't say that. You are one of us! You have always been one of us!"

It wasn't one grand epiphany. The clouds didn't roll back and all the pieces suddenly aligned in a bright shining moment but Bilbo thought he understood, or at least related to the young dwarf better now. It was a hard burden to bear when you didn't fit in among the people you were born to. When you felt like a stranger among your own kind. Bilbo supposes now that he is lucky to have had two parents who embraced his differences, and at least one of which who had shared them herself.

And Bilbo shared many common loves with his kin. He loved to work the earth, to eat and drink. He took comfort in the smial beneath the hill, the home his father had built for his mother, the place he had grown up. Even in his differences he found common ground. It wasn't much, but it was something.

But Kíli was not like him. Kíli, whose smile seemed to hold all of the youth and eagerness his fellow dwarves kept in check, if they shared it at all. And now Bilbo understood him at least a little better.

It is easy to forget that the two brothers are older than him; the long lives of their people mean their days of youth stretch the decades that would see a hobbit well past his majority. But youth did not come without its prices, not even for the young princes. The intricacies of politics and a royal line are things that Bilbo has little knowledge in, and for that he is quite glad. There are expectations and titles to be kept and appearances to maintain. It is a difficult life, and youth does not help their cause.

To feel out of place among your own kind, on an equal ground, is one thing. To have all eyes focused on every move you make is infinitely more difficult. People critique your every decision; they analyze your every word. When you already doubt yourself, when you worry you're wrong in every way that matters it makes you feel like less of a person.

No one should have to live like that.

He manages to fend off Bombur, with Bofur's assistance, long enough for the brothers to arrive, and if Kíli has pulled his hair back into his clasp and has made some attempt to smooth it down he pretends not to notice.

But he does all the same.

**O~o~O**

And Bilbo begins to notice other things he hadn't really noticed before. To the rest of the company, with the exclusion of his brother and Ori, Kíli is treated as little more than a child. The energy that would see him the favorite of many fauntlings in the Shire is not so well received among his kin. It has its uses surely; he is sent out hunting and he stands guard during the deep hours of the night when his keen eyesight will best aid their watch. But now Bilbo sees the thorns. He sees the little barbs that make Kíli flinch.

"At least you're proficient with that elvish twig of yours!" someone calls when Kíli brings down two grouse, making the others laugh. They mean it in jest, but Bilbo sees how Kíli's jaw clenches, how he casts his gaze down making up an excuse that he has to find and dress the birds.

"When we were young Kíli broke his collar bone falling out of a tree," Fíli says quietly, appearing out of nowhere to fall in step with Bilbo. They slow in order to put some distance between themselves and the rest. "He picked up a bow because while he was weaker on that side it was still a weapon he could use, and he excelled at it. However, there are not many dwarven archers and he has always faced some…adversity for using it."

"Why are you telling me this?" Bilbo asks curiously. He is thankful for the insight but Fíli has never volunteered any insight into his brother before.

"I tell you this because my brother seems to trust you, and he is a good judge of character no matter what others might say. And also because you are kind to him, and I appreciate that."

Bilbo offers the golden-haired brother a smile. "And why shouldn't I be kind to him? Or care what weapon he chooses. He is kind, and warm. Sometimes he speaks without thinking, but we are guilty of that."

"Your qualities, and those your people value, are rare among our kind and while I do not deny we may benefit from them greatly it means we are not as accustomed to them as we perhaps should be. Our traditions are strong, carved from the same stone our ancestors were, and are oftentimes just as inflexible." He looks down at the hobbit and must see some objection there. "It isn't right," he concedes before Bilbo can voice any protest. "But that's how it is."

After hearing Fíli's warning to his brother it is something of a surprise to have him speak so openly about his people. Surely he risks just as much as his brother if the others heard. "I know you both risk the ire of your uncle, and the others, if they knew you were telling me these things."

Fíli grins. "Fear not, we have been escaping the wrath of our elders since we were very young."

Bilbo chuckles, "Your brother said the same thing."

"Well you know what they say about great minds," Fíli replied cheekily causing Bilbo to snort. "Just don't tell him I said that. It would go straight to his head."

Bilbo's reply is cut short by Kíli's return, his normal smile back in place as he slings the birds over one shoulder and joins them at the end of the line.

"What are you talking about?"

Fíli winks at Bilbo and favors his brother with a grin that says he's not going to tell him the truth.

"Your timing."

**O~o~O**

Once they have time to stop, once they have time to breathe again, Kíli thinks he will have nightmares about the ground cracking open beneath his feet. He will flinch when it yawns wide, and he will reach for his brother but Fíli will always be just out of reach. And as he stretches, as he wills his fingers to lengthen just an inch so he can grab his brother the ground will open up and swallow them whole.

But they don't have time to stop, not now, because the ground has not stopped falling out from beneath them. At least this time they are together even if it seems what time they have will soon be cut short. Kíli had never pictured his own death though he supposes now that it had always been their looming in the shadows, closer than he'd like. Still he never thought it would be like this. Somehow he always pictured himself dying beneath a wide, open sky. He was a dwarf but he never imagined himself dying beneath the mountains.

And it seems that fate, at least this day, agrees with him. Thorin will grumble at the fact that the wizard has saved them but Kíli is grateful. He has saved the company again. Saved his brother. Saved—

"Where's Bilbo?" the wizard demands. "Where's our hobbit?!"

There is a mad scramble, a recounting of heads but no hobbit materializes and shoulders slump when they realize they have escaped the goblin's tunnels one member short.

"I think I saw him slip away when they first collared us," Nori admits and Gandalf rounds on him demanding to know what he saw, what happened.

"I'll tell you what happened," Thorin interrupts, face snarling in the fading light. "He saw his chance and he took it! He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since he first left home! That _burglar_ is long gone!" He spits out the word burglar like it is a curse, like he has brought nothing but trouble to them. A burden. A dead weight.

Kíli looks at his brother, his eyes holding all the questions he can't voice. Could it be true? Could he have misjudged Bilbo so completely? He knew the hobbit was ill-suited for their adventure, but he'd come along anyway and he'd risen to the challenges so far. Surely that had to count for something. Surely he wouldn't come so far just to turn back now.

"No. He's not."

Kíli startles and whips around to find a dirty, slightly bloodied Bilbo panting at the edge of their group. He's alive and he's here. He grips Balin's shoulder in greeting and Gandalf smiles broadly, but Thorin does not.

"Why did you come back?" Thorin asks, his voice rough as he steps towards the hobbit.

"Surely, it doesn't matter except that he's here," Gandalf protests.

"It matters!"

"Look I know you doubt me," Bilbo says and he's staring straight at Thorin who seems as surprised as everyone else by his sudden bravery. "I know you always have. And you're right. I miss my arm chair. I miss my books and my garden. You see, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back, because you don't have one, a home. It was taken from you." He looks around, his eyes meeting Kíli's for the briefest of moments, and he swears they soften slightly, before he looks back at Thorin. "But I will help you take it back if I can."

It's that simple. With just a few words Bilbo Baggins, master of Bag End, humbles them.

He could have stayed in his warm, hobbit hole and his conscience would never have woken him during a long night to fill him with heavy regret. He doesn't owe them allegiance and they do not share a bond of kinship. Instead he has traipsed halfway across Middle Earth to help them, and for what? Not for the gold, Kíli would bet on that. Not because he has any desire to be a hero. Kíli realizes that despite everything, despite the reason that Bilbo gives for coming back, no one knows why he came in the first place.

It is a mystery, and it makes Kíli more determined than ever to discover the truth.

But that truth will have to come later because the air is punctuated with all-too familiar howls. Wargs. And where wargs come, orcs follow.

In all of the times he had imagined this journey he hadn't pictured it like this. It wasn't that he didn't expect it to be hard, or the nights to be cold, or that they wouldn't face danger, he just hadn't expected their lives to be hanging by a thread every time he turned around. Fear never seemed so real before this.

What scares him is the gasp of horror he hears Thorin utter at the sight of the pale orc. His blood runs cold when his uncle descends from their collapsing tree to face his foe head on, even though in his heart he knows there is no other option. He grew up on tales of Azanulbizar, and he never doubted his uncle's belief that the fiend had died from his wounds in the depths of the mountains. That he lived, that he still fought to end their line was a deafening blow. It changes everything they think they know.

Kíli knows that Thorin must face him, but it doesn't have to be now.

Later Kíli will wonder at the fact that Bilbo rushes to his uncle's defense even though Thorin has been nothing but cold towards him. For what reason would he place himself between the pale orc and his uncle? There was no debt owed, and surely Bilbo wouldn't have expected to win that fight—so then why?

For dwarves facing off against an enemy was a badge of honor. It showed courage and bravery by staring death in the face. If you fell it was as a dwarf should, with honor in battle. But hobbits were not made for battle, stealthy and silent as they might be. Still that does not stop Bilbo's charge—it does not sway his courage.

Bilbo earns the rest of the company's favor after that.

"You are the reason our uncle lives."

"Don't give me credit where none is due," Bilbo says, but there is no energy in his voice, no fight. "If you want to thank someone thank Gandalf, or the eagles, or yourselves."

It's Fíli that sits beside him. "I don't think it's undue credit, Master Baggins. Whatever the motivation the fact remains that were it not for you our uncle would be dead now. There's no denying that."

"I'm not sure I agree, but I don't have the energy to argue with you… either of you," he says as he looks up at Kíli who is standing at his other shoulder. "Is it time to go?"

"Oin is still tending to uncle's wounds. We have a little time."

Kíli sits opposite of his brother on Bilbo's other side and sets his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "You can rest your eyes, Bilbo. We'll wake you when we're ready to go."

"You don't have to—to—a" But his eyes are already closing and his argument dies on his lips as his head falls against Kíli's shoulder.

The hobbit seems so small here tucked against his side and for a moment Kíli is worried that something is wrong with him but somehow Fíli knows just what to say. "The first time I killed someone, the first time I saw a real battle, it was all adrenaline and nerves and a rush of blood. Don't worry. This is normal. He wasn't made for fighting, and even if he were he wasn't ready to face it regardless. The adrenaline has died down and his body is just trying to compensate. He'll be alright."

Kíli leans towards his brother, his body curling around the body beside him. "Why would he do that, Fí? Why would he rush to uncle's defense after everything he's been through? These hobbits, they're peaceful folk. Like you said, they're not made for fighting."

Fíli looks down at the sleeping hobbit. "Fighting weeds in their gardens maybe." He looks up at Kíli and shrugs. "I don't know. Bravery? Honor? He has both those things. But his true motivations…well I just don't know."

They sit there in silence before Fíli speaks again. "Why did _you_ come?"

Kíli startles and stares at his brother in bewilderment. "You know why! To help Uncle reclaim our home. To win back Erebor."

"Is that the real reason, or is it what you tell yourself because it's what's expected of you—what is expected of an heir of Durin?"

Fíli doesn't need an answer. He reaches over and ruffles his brother's hair. "Maybe Master Baggins' reasons aren't such a mystery?" he suggests before he stands.

Kíli doesn't have time to muse on his brother's words because Thorin is calling for them to move out and he's shaking Bilbo awake. He's offered a bleary smile before the hobbit joins the rest of the company and their journey continues ever onward.

In the distance Erebor looms.


	4. Whispers and Smiles

The whispers started early.

Whenever his back was turned, whenever he was lost in a throng of people he heard them. He would whirl around, eyes searching for the owner of the voice but he never caught them. Anonymity made them bold. It evoked their cruelty when they were sure they would never be found out.

"Maybe he will look more like a dwarf when his beard sprouts…if it ever does."

"If he loves the tree shaggers enough to pick up their weapons perhaps he should go live with them."

"Surely _that_ is no heir of Durin."

The barbs lodged under his skin, burrowing ever deeper, hurting him when he didn't expect it. They tore at him when he was still, when a moment was left open and his mind wandered. He learned to cover up the evidence beneath an armor of chatter and boundless energy. He hid the winces behind bright smiles.

But like any child sometimes the hurt ran too deep and he couldn't hide it away. It overflowed and spilled out and made him want to hide away where no one could see him because empty spaces couldn't judge a dwarf who didn't fit in.

_He had gone missing one day on a break from Balin's lessons. When he didn't return a frantic Fíli ran home to tell his mother who sent word to the forge. While Dís and Fíli waited at their home Thorin and Dwalin set out to find the youngster, and it was his uncle that found him hours later with his ear pressed to the smooth stone, eyes closed as he listened. His tears had long since dried but they had traced tracks down his cheeks that he hadn't thought to wipe away._

"_Kíli, what are you doing? Is this where you've been? You've had us all worried sick!" his uncle scolded._

"_Shhhh!"_

"_Kíli." Thorin's voice held all the warning he usually needed to use with his nephews but this time he was completely ignored. He bent to grab the boy's arm. "Kíli!"_

"_Stop, be quiet! I'm listening!"_

_His youngest nephew was rarely quiet, and rarely stopped long enough to do anything least of all listen. This was unusual and Thorin knew it. With a sigh and a creak in his joints that he liked to pretend wasn't there he stretched out alongside Kíli and pressed his own ear to the ground._

_He waited._

_And heard nothing._

"_Kíli, what are we listening for?" he asked, and he wasn't prepared for the pitiful sniffle his nephew gave. The boy was just barely thirty, still very much a youngster, and he screwed his eyes shut as tears tried to escape again._

_Thorin knew what the others said. He knew that Kíli was the brunt of many unkind rumors and words. While he was fiercely protective of his nephews, he could only defend them against those who dared speak or act in his presence and they had long since learned never to speak ill of Kíli in front of him. They were not stupid enough to invoke the wrath of Thorin Oakenshield. Especially not when it came to his family._

_He reached out and swiped at the tears with his thumb. "Lad, what are we listening for?" he repeated._

"_Singing."_

"_Singing?"_

_Kíli nods, cheek scraping against the stone. "They others say a real dwarf can hear the stone singing," he said softly. "I need to hear it singing."_

_His voice was so wistful, so full of longing that Thorin felt his heart clench. He sat up and pulled his nephew into a hug. "Kíli, it's not something you'll hear with your face pressed against the stone. It's more like a feeling, a connection to the mountains and the stone. You'll feel it in your bones, in your heart. It's something that will shift within your very core. It will be a feeling you won't doubt, and you won't forget. Do you understand?"_

_Kíli had regarded his uncle with solemn eyes. "I understand."_

_Thorin wouldn't realize until many long years later that understanding didn't offer Kíli the comfort or assurances he had thought it did._

As he grew older he saw the effort those closest to him put forth to try to empathize, but it wasn't something they could understand, it wasn't something they could feel from the outside looking in. As much as they might try, and as much as he might love them for it, they would never know what it was like to be him. They would never carry the weight of a stigma and the harsh reactions it brought with it.

Fíli was a fierce protector, always ready to back his brother up with words or action. He was calm, a cool head under pressure, and loyal without a doubt. He was also respected, and while he was just a prince to a king with no kingdom he possessed an air of royalty few questioned. In that respect he took after their mother. Dís was well loved and often it was under her guidance that rifts between their people did not grow larger. People respected her, admired her. She was a princess in every meaning of the word and the people never doubted it. They never doubted she had been carved from the same stone as Durin himself.

But not Kíli. He took after his father, and his mother would tell him that was no ill thing. He barely remembered him, for all that he had died when he was still very young, but his mother had bit back her grief to tell him about the man he so closely resembled when the world rested heavy on his young shoulders.

"You share the same spirit, the same love of life," she had told him once, when he had returned from playing sporting a bloody nose and tears in his eyes when the others told him he was too scrawny to be anything other than the spawn of an elf. "And you have his smile. It's a beautiful smile, my little bird."

He had buried his face against her shoulder and she told him the story of how they'd met, how he had won her over with his laugh and his honor.

"He was simple only in that he was not troubled by the burdens of ruling. He could work the stone like no one I had ever seen and he loved you boys more than anything."

But love had not saved him in the end. It hadn't prevented him from going off to war. And even though no one ever said it Kíli knew that his father had never been a strong fighter. He had been raised in the mines. He could wield a pickax with deadly effect but pickaxes were no match for the swords, maces, and bows the enemy used. He had not returned from Azanulbizar.

His family was a strong foundation, but they did not understand him. He had never expected to meet someone who might.

Until he'd met Bilbo.

It wasn't as if he knew the hobbit's life story. In fact, he knew very little about him. Bilbo had told him about hobbits in general and had offered some small insight into his parents, but beyond that his past was a mystery. Still, he seemed to be something of a kindred spirit.

"Are you alright, Master Baggins?"

It is midday and the carrock still seems to loom above them; it had taken a lot longer to descend then they had expected, even though they had been walking for hours now. Gandalf agrees with Balin that a short rest won't hurt anything and an assurance to Thorin that they will still make it to his friend's home before sundown is all it takes for him to call a stop to their march.

The hobbit looks up at him, exhaustion coloring the skin below his eyes purple. "Back to Master Baggins, are we?"

Kíli drops down next to him. "Bilbo."

"I'm alright. And how are you? Were you injured at all?"

Kíli shakes his head. "Nothing but a few scrapes."

He's rewarded with a laugh. "You're like a cat. Always landing on your feet then."

"A cat?" Kíli scoffs, but there's a grin on his face. "I am far more noble than a cat!"

Bilbo regards him with mock severity. "If you think a cat is anything but noble you haven't lived with one," he replies. "They think they rule the household and everyone and everything, and they live to be pleased. My father had this scrap of a cat that loved only him. Orange as flames and with a temper to put an ogre to shame. He was a monster, but I never told my father that. He loved the furry beast. They are smarter; smarter than people give them credit for and they are self-sufficient. There is more to them than meets the eye." He murmurs the last part so softly Kíli almost doesn't hear him. Bilbo's fingers drum against his leg as he falls into silence for a long moment before he looks up at him. "But they always seem to escape trouble with ease..." Bilbo finds a scratch on Kíli's palm and grips the dwarf's wrist to look at it. When he seems to assure himself it's nothing to worry about he smiles up at Kíli. "As do you."

The young dwarf is silent for a long moment as he contemplates the hobbit's words. Was Bilbo just describing a cat? Or was he describing what he'd seen in him? He opens his mouth to ask and then shuts it again and he knows Bilbo sees him, but he doesn't ask.

"Alright then, if I'm a cat what are you?" he asks instead.

"Well I suppose if you ask anyone that's ever known me they'd say I'm a mouse," Bilbo concedes. "They would say I'm timid and mild-mannered; that I hide away in my home and do only what everyone expects—or at least I did up until now."

"And what do you say?"

Bilbo wrings his hands. "Well I do live in a hole in the ground," he finally concedes and he smiles up at him.

Kíli knows a diversion when he sees one. "It was a very nice hole in the ground," he replies, and he knows it's the right answer when Bilbo smiles.

He likes making Bilbo smile.


	5. Fairies and Feelings

"It feels good to just _sit down_," Bilbo says to no one but himself.

He's sitting in Beorn's massive expanse of a garden with his pipe as the bees buzz by on their way from flower to flower. In the pasture the ponies are grazing peacefully and for the first time in a very long while Bilbo feels completely safe. He feels content.

Well, _almost_ content.

He casts a look around before heaving out a sigh; He is still, blessedly, alone. It isn't that he doesn't enjoy the company of the others; it's not that at all. In fact, if anything they've all been much warmer since their descent from the carrock—and what a descent that had been. He's been nearly asleep and had tripped over his own feet more times than he cared to admit. But always there had been a hand to steady him or catch his elbow before he could tumble away. Usually it was Dwalin, the stern warrior giving him a short nod and the smallest of smiles when Bilbo thanked him yet again.

It had been Dwalin's hand at his elbow but Bilbo realized with some degree of discomfort that he wished it was Kíli's.

Over the course of their journey so far he'd found an unlikely affection growing for the young dwarf. It wasn't just wanton infatuation. Somehow, somewhere along the way he'd come to care for Kíli. He wanted him to be happy, to have his home back, to feel loved.

_But he's a dwarf, you silly hobbit, and a prince._ Bilbo scolds himself. _He'll have responsibilities once the mountain is theirs again. Responsibilities that will not include dalliances with simple hobbits from the Shire. _

Not that he ever much fit to the Shire standard. Or that he'd ever been simple. He had too much of his mother's wildness. Too much Took blood for a respectable Baggins. It was bound to happen; they'd all said it for as long as he could remember.

"It is better this way," Bilbo tells himself with a nod. "There are far too many reasons why it should not be, rather than why it should."

_The round, green door is open and he can hear voices as he dashes up the steps._

_The day had carried him down past Bywater into the woods near Tookborough in search of wood elves and fairies. His golden curls were tousled and laced with twigs and leaves from where he'd fallen asleep in the sunlight._

_His parents were used to him returning as the sun sank behind the trees with scuffed knees and torn trousers. He was never met with a scolding, only with a warm smile and an even warmer meal. His mother would usher him in and his father would sit with him, smiling patiently as his young son told him about his day._

_But this time it was different. He returned to Bag End but it wasn't just his parents that were there. They were entertaining guests and those guests did not share his parent's indulgence for fairy tales and adventurous young hobbits. _

_He pauses in the door way leaning into the round frame as he listens. It's impolite to eavesdrop, he knows this, but he can't help it. He hadn't known they were expecting company. _

"_Out past teatime?" There was a disapproving sniff and Bilbo recognizes his grandmother's voice. "Seriously Bella, you must rein him in. How will be become a proper Baggins if you don't teach him?"_

"_He is a Took too," Belladonna replies, her voice calm and firm. "And a child besides. They should be allowed to play, to chase after fireflies and daydream. He should be home any time."_

_When he bounces in the door he is met with a look of disdain from his cousin, Lobelia Sackville, and a tut-tut from his grandmother._

_"Really Bella, don't you think your son is old enough to not be entertaining such fantasies? He should be here at home, not off chasing fantasies. At this rate he'll never be a proper hobbit." She turns to her grandson and even though her face is kind her words cut him more than anyone will know. "Don't you want to be a proper hobbit?"_

_He looks between his mother and the others, but even though she doesn't hesitate to leap to her young son's defense he feels the weight of those words. They think he isn't a proper hobbit. They don't understand. They don't see the magic of the world. They don't wonder what lies beyond the borders of their peaceful home._

_But he does. And they look down on him for it._

_His mother finds him in his room that evening after she manages to politely shoo their guests out the front door and untangles her son from a cocoon of quilts. _

_"Dry your eyes, my love," she murmurs as he turns his face into her shoulder and she gathers him onto her lap. She smells of clover and freshly baked scones and her fingers are warm on his face as she smooths away the tears from his cheeks. "It doesn't matter whether you're a proper hobbit or not. Not to me."_

_She stands him up on his feet and bends to press a kiss to his forehead. "Come now, I have some biscuits and honey fresh for you. You must be hungry and I want to hear about your day." His father has gone down to the market to buy some items for supper and so Bilbo pulls himself up into the chair at the head of the table while his mother goes back to the soup she has on the stove. The hurt is still fresh and he still doesn't feel like doing much more than slathering the biscuits his mother sets in front of him in honey, but she fixes him with such a sweet smile and hopeful look that he relents and offers her a crooked grin. "Tell me where you went today, sweetling."_

_So he does. _

_He tells her about the warren of rabbits that have taken up residence in a copse near Bywater, how they have welcomed new kits into their family. He describes the trail he found winding through the reeds and rocks on the bank of the creek and wonders aloud if it was left there by fairies._

_He stops and he's quiet for so long that Belladonna turns around, her hands twisting at the hand towel near the hearth. He finally sighs and looks up sheepishly. "It was probably left by otters, right mama?" he says after a long pause. "Not fairies."_

"_I'm sure it was fairies, Bilbo," she says. And she touches his cheek, gently turning his chin up so their eyes meet. "Don't let them take away the things you believe in."_

_She's so earnest that he gives her a smile and bobs his head. _

"_It's fairies," he says but even to his own ears he doesn't sound quite so convinced anymore._

After that his trips to the woods grew fewer and further between. He spent more time practicing his letters and learning to cook. He spent hours in front of the kitchen window, or the small round in his father's study that would later become his study, his eyes travelling to the places his feet no longer carried him. But he pushed aside the part of him that missed it; he molded himself into the kind of person the other hobbits found proper. He did even though he knew it wouldn't work, not completely.

But he'd done it. He'd set aside the person he was to be the person everyone else thought he should be. He became more like his father and less like his mother, even though he adored and admired her spirit as much as his father did. He learned to keep house and tend his garden. He'd become the master of Bag End upon the death of his parents and had even managed to grow some prize-winning tomatoes. He was by most accounts—though not all—a respectable hobbit.

And by the time Gandalf had shown up on his doorstep he'd been so close to certain that he should have been just that from the beginning. A normal hobbit, content to remain in the Shire and keep up his hearth and home. It's what hobbits were meant to do. Looking back it wasn't so hard to see just how easily that façade had come tumbling down at the insistence of a meddling wizard and thirteen boisterous dwarves. Trouble, that's what they brought; at least that's what he told himself at first. He supposes he's still not sure, they've encountered an awful lot of trolls, goblins, orcs, and wargs so far, but it hasn't been quite so bad as he'd imagined.

But he'd found companionship, and adventure, and a piece of himself that he hadn't acknowledged for many long years.

And he'd found Kíli.

A hummingbird zips by then returns, hovering above him. Its bright red breast makes it looks like a ruby suspended in midair. It reminds him of the roses in his mother's garden, and his tomatoes, and the way Kíli blushes when he's embarrassed.

The two watch each other curiously.

"I used to believe you were fairies, you know," he murmurs to the creature as it hums over his head. "And I don't know now why I ever let them convince me you weren't."

**O~o~O**

When the lengthening shadows chase him indoors again he finds Kíli sitting near his bedroll, legs spread out looking intently at the fabric in his hands. Upon closer inspection Bilbo finds it's one of the dwarrow's shirts and he's attempting to mend it.

Attempting and failing.

"What are you doing?" Bilbo asks in an attempt to draw Kíli's attention away from stabbing himself with a needle.

Kíli looks up at him like he's slow. "Sewing."

Bilbo can't help but roll his eyes. "That is not sewing, Kíli. That is stabbing yourself with a needle while holding a torn shirt."

Kíli's mouth drops open and he looks between Bilbo and his hands several times before his shoulders slump and he looks up at the hobbit sheepishly. "Alright, I suppose that's accurate."

His admission is met with a laugh and Bilbo sits down beside him. He holds out his hands, "Give it here."

"I can—I—can't do this," Kíli admits with a sigh and hands over the shirt.

Bilbo bumps their shoulders together and begins to thread the needle through the fabric with the ease of long practice. "It's an acquired skill. Don't be too hard on yourself. If I were to pick up a blade and try to sharpen it you can believe I had even less luck than you had with these."

"I suppose that's true," Kíli admits dejectedly and Bilbo breaks from sewing to smile at him. "It just seems like such a simple thing. Like something I should know how to do."

"You should cut yourself some slack," Bilbo tells him. "It's not the end of the world that you haven't learned to sew and this way I can do something for you."

"But there are many things you can do for me that don't involve mending my clothes!" Kíli exclaims.

"Is that so?" He leers at Kíli teasingly before he can stop himself and as soon as he realizes what he's done he flushes bright red and drops his gaze back to the task at hand. "What I mean to say rather is that I don't mind mending your clothes. Not in the slightest."

They both sit there in silence except for the crackle of the fire nearby and the laughter of some dwarves who had broken into one of Beorn's kegs.

"Do you have others?"

"You've finished already?!" Kíli inspects the neatly stitched shirt and then grins at Bilbo. "Are you sure?"

The hobbit makes a grabbing gesture with his hand. "Give them here. We can't have you reclaim Erebor in torn trousers after all."

A small pile of clothing materializes between them and the hobbit picks up a pair of trousers. "Do you really think we'll succeed?" The question is asked so softly Bilbo almost misses it.

Did he think they'd succeed? When they'd first left Bag End he'd thought a dragon would be the worst thing they'd have to contend with, and he'd even been skeptical then. Now he knew there were more dangers along the road between them, and the journey was even more perilous than he'd imagined. But he'd also seen firsthand just how sturdy these dwarves were, how stout of heart. It would not be easy but he had faith.

"I should think so, Kíli. In the end we'll give it our very best, and that's all we can do." That's all anyone could do. "If you do your best... If we all do our best then no one can ask for more. Well at least they shouldn't."

He gives the dwarf a smile and focuses on sewing up a rather large hole in the trousers he'd picked out of the pile. "Now how did you manage this?!"

"Would you believe me if I said the eagles did it?"

Bilbo can't help the laughter that spills out him and Kíli deadpans. "So that's a no?"

"You're ridiculous."

Kíli grins. "And?"

"And obnoxious," Bilbo retorts but he's smiling.

"And?" Kíli's voice is softer now, the look on his face just a touch more intense than it had been moments before.

Bilbo swallows thickly before answering, willing his voice not to waiver. "And charming."

Bilbo knows he's on thin ice. He should curb his tongue before it leads him into trouble. But Kíli seems to take it all in stride as he leans closer his eyes darker than Bilbo can ever remember seeing them. "And?"

"And-"

"Come on, you two. Dinner!" Bofur calls and winks as the two jump apart.

Bilbo blushes and Kíli jumps to his feet holding out a hand to the other man to help him up. "Wouldn't want to miss dinner!" He says and his usual smiling demeanor is firmly back in place.

"No," Bilbo shakes his head. "We wouldn't."

They enjoy dinner and Thorin announces they will stay another day before setting out for Mirkwood. It is a welcome piece of news.

He slips away from the table before the others and sits on his bedroll, listening to the dwarves laugh around the table as he dips his needle in and out of the cloth in his hands. He hums under his breath, the same songs his mother used to sing, as he works.

It's late when he stirs from sleep, woken by a warm body tucking in next to him. There are dwarves snoring and he finds he's fallen asleep on top of the clothes he had mended. He thinks hears the ghost of a chuckle and imagines warm fingers brushing against his forehead.

"And?" The word is whispered in his ear and even in those hazy moments when his mind hasn't decided if he's awake or sleeping he is taken back to his conversation with Kíli earlier in the evening.

"And handsome," he murmurs, eyes closed, still dreaming.

There's the sharp intake of breath before he Kíli's voice is soft in his ear. "Truly, you think so?"

His hazel eyes blink open to meet dark ones even in the low light left from a dying fire. "Of course. I'd have to be blind not to."

"But I do not look like the other dwarves," Kíli whispers like it is some terrible secret.

Bilbo's eyes are heavy, sleep is pulling at him still but he smiles. "No, you look like Kíli. And I like Kíli. Very much."

As sleep closes over him a pair of lips close over his and he thinks this is a very good dream.

A wonderful dream.


End file.
